Moving Forward
by Serenitychan13
Summary: You've probably heard the reason for the existence of a ghost... Unfinished business. Steve Trevor refuses to let his story end after making the sacrifice play. If you check the timelines, you will see where they line up.
1. Part 1

All things considered, that really hadn't hurt as much as he thought it would. Well, had he really given it that much conscious thought? No, not really… Once he got in the cockpit, it had all been over but the shooting, as it were. He could still feel himself smiling there at the beginning of the end. For all the things Steve Trevor had done that he could not claim pride for… Nope, he couldn't exactly say the sacrifice play at the last moment there made up for it all.

If he had it to do over… No, he couldn't think that way. No matter how you looked at it, he couldn't have done different… Now, though, he couldn't shake the feeling that it had ended too soon. Sure, he wished to see her face again. He had no doubt of her victory over Ares. Charlie, Sameer, and the Chief, they'd be fine. Seeing as he didn't see any of them now, he guessed they made it.

He had no clear memory of when everything had gone dark – couldn't really remember the explosion. When he had "come to," so to speak, he saw nothing but scrubby, dry grass in every direction. He stood still until he looked down and saw a rough dirt road. Next moment, someone bumped into him. Feeling like an entire, man-sized hangover, he looked up to see the uniform retreat without seeing the newcomer's face. He couldn't think on it long as three more newcomers jostled past him. As more and more appeared, he could only get swept along with them.

Natural, morbid curiosity prompted him to look around again. Like the first one who bumped him, most of them had on uniforms. He saw Americans like himself, English, French, German, and they all blended together. Some of their clothing bore holes and blood, as if they should be missing limbs, but their bodies were whole. Their skin looked clean, hair washed if not combed. Steve tried to swallow hard at the expressions on so many faces. Most looked confused. Some looked frightened or particularly grim. All, however, wore expressions under-toned with something abiding and resolute. They marched along together, insignias forgotten.

Women, hundreds of them, streamed down the road from nowhere. Children too, he noticed in muted horror; and old men limped along with the crowd. Some women had their hands fixed in an extended position but had no children in their tow. Children clutched at beloved toys that were not there. Some of them, like the women, reached up to clutch at absent hand. The old men walked mostly with canes and crutches but had nothing in their hands.

"K.I.A." they would call it on paper back in the world, but those three letters didn't cover it. Steve wished there was a way to bring the cameras here, wherever "here" might be, and get this on film. What would become of the world if they saw what he saw – real war? Here on this road to and from nowhere, it sank in: the indiscriminate destruction, the waste of otherwise-sacred human life.

He supposed it really only hit him when he set foot on this road. This had been why she did what she had done – to prevent all these lives from being lost. In truth, he could not call them all innocent. He saw others, soldiers like himself, who must have taken lives. In this Great War, the "War to End All Wars," would anyone ever be innocent again? Yes, he thought, if in any way he could help it. He didn't have a choice. He had to help it!

"Stop the world," muttered Steve. "I want to get on!"

And so, he did. Though it felt like somebody shoving him in the back with a battering ram, he stopped dead, as it were. The irresistible force met the immovable object and his knees nearly buckled. Even the act of turning round on the spot cost him a dear amount of effort. Then it felt like taking a champ's punch in the chest. Steve would have roared with the strain it placed on his back to push against the invisible hands on his shoulders. The little perception he had of time he had slowed to a proverbial crawl.

It felt like the miracle of miracles simply to take his first forward step. The march of the dead pressed inexorably forward past him, the thousands of fallen drawn without resistance to the hereafter. The merely parted to get around him, though. For one wild moment, Steve thought perhaps they might attempt to dissuade his attempt to push forward, maybe grab at him… The lot made no such effort, though, and his second step succeeded. Steps three, four, and five came even easier. Before he really knew it, Steve strode forward through the ranks of the oncoming dead.

"This better not get me reborn as a fish or anything," he grumbled in his head. "I can't help anyone that way."

He had to help. He had to try… It might be crazy to think it, but maybe he could somehow find a way back. Certainly, back in the world, there had been enough examples, even if they were all literary. Swimming metaphorically upstream got easier the longer he did it. Soon, he found himself dodging between the moving bodies at a dead run. None of them paid him any mind as they continued on. Maybe, he thought if he ran far and fast enough, he might run all the way back to her.

Next moment, though, conscious thought promptly exited Steve Trevor's head and he plummeted into darkness. He couldn't tell, really, if he fell through several stories' worth of said darkness, or if he'd closed his eyes. The cessation of his fall, however, came without the expected impact and he seemed to have paused in midair, turned at an odd angle. His attempt to step down met with empty space and he went arse-over-teakettle, as if down invisible steps. Mostly unsurprisingly, the impact to his derriere hurt nothing but what remained of his dignity. The round of singular applause from an unseen witness, though, unsettled him much more. Steve scrambled to stand up.

"No, by all means – have a seat," the voice of the ostensible observer invited him. "Given that you're my guest; I take it you don't intend to stay long: unfinished business and all that? But anyway, can I get you a drink?"

Steve snapped his head in every direction he could, trying to catch a look at this newcomer. No, still too dark – he could hardly see his hand in front of his face. Wait, he still had his hands, right? He couldn't recall if he had actually checked his body for intact parts back on the road of the dead… With his next pass, he got too close, smacking himself firmly in the nose. If he hadn't been dead, that would have really hurt! All right then, he thought – hands, check.

"Ah! My bad entirely!" announced the voice. "Bit cliché, but it's kinda dark down here-"

Steve blanched.

"Down here?" he repeated.

"Don't interrupt while I'm announcing dramatically," snapped the second voice before it finished without missing a beat. "So, I think maybe I should… light it up!"

Was the dramatic pause really necessary, thought Steve.

"Why yes, yes it was," answered the strangest being Steve Trevor could recall seeing in this or any other life. "And what did I just tell you about interrupting?"

"But I didn't…" protested Steve, aloud this time.

"Oh, shut up," the new guy fired back amiably. He fluffed a long bluish-gray cloak over his shoulders and the whole space round him brightened. He struck a pose, took a breath, and started: "Please allow me to introduce myself – I'm a man of wealth and taste…"

The introduction trailed off at the look on Steve's face. You couldn't've got a better expression if you'd hit him with a fish! A perfectly manicured, dark blue eyebrow rose against a lighter-blue face.

"No? Too much?" His voice returned to deadpan. "Ahead of your time?"

Steve Trevor went bug-eyed.

"Your head is on fire!" he bellowed. His handsome face followed an impressive progression of apoplectic gyrations. "Your head! On fire! What in the- oh my god, I never thought I'd been that bad!"

The pilot swung round wildly, still arse-down on the stone floor.

"You having some kind of an issue there, buddy?" asked the blue guy, way too calmly for Steve.

Readying himself for one last fight, Steve Trevor jumped to his feet, head cocked and fists clenched. Everything about this situation read as totally, completely, and in all other ways inconceivable! Barely a week ago, he was just your basic Allied spy. Now..

"An issue?!" he spluttered. "Well, now that you mention it… Hell yes, I have an issue! I have a hell of a lot of issues! The main issue I have right now is… Why the hell am I in Hell!?"

The dark blue eyebrow shot up again and blue flames flashed two feet out the top of the blue guy's head – clearly he'd been deeply offended.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa…" be blustered, swishing his cape with the flamboyancy of his gestures. "First of all, the name is Hades…"

He drew it out, so it sounded like "Ha-des" before continuing.

"Hel? Different story entirely," he went on. "Half-supermodel, half rotting corpse – yeah, I don't like dealing with her. Totally different underworld – way too cold…"

Steve made a rather explosive head noise.

"Different underworld?" he echoed faintly. "Just how many of those are there?"

Hades stared at him as if he had asked something like "Do owls exist?"

"How many did you think there were?" he counter-queried.

Steve visibly twitched as his face turned blotchy and puce.

"One!" he shouted. "Just one! There's heaven and the other place and I'm not a papist, so I never understood the whole Purgatory thing…"

Hades rolled his eyes and his hair flared up again.

"Wow, for an answer of 'one' that sounded a lot like 'three' to me," he retorted, back in his standard deadpan. "Anyway, moving right along… Yes, as it happens, you're here. With me."

Steve seemed almost to deflate. He supposed it was a bit of a moot point by now, but it finally started to sink in. Still wild-eyed, he looked Hades up and down. Pointlessly, since it would seem he no longer breathed, he sighed.

"So, this is it."

"Yep."

"I'm dead."

"Oh, as a doorknob."

"I thought it was doornail…"

"Don't correct the Lord of the Underworld."

"Sorry."

"Think nothing of it."

For an indeterminately long while, the God of the Dead and Steve Trevor's apparently immortal soul stared at each other.

"So, I have to ask," Steve started carefully. "How in the hell did I end up here? I mean, I know I might not have been the greatest guy ever… I was a spy – I lied, I stole. I never wrote back to that girl in Paris-"

Hades grinned wryly at him.

"Oh, don't stop now," he deadpanned. "You're doing great."

Steve audibly ground his teeth.

"But I died a hero!" he blurted out, even a touch surprised at himself. "I was trying to stop the most terrible war in all of human history! I was trying to help… her… stop…"

He paused as if he had run out of the air he didn't need in the first place and gulped hard.

"I was trying to help her," he finished weakly.

For a slow moment, the grin dropped away from Hades's clownlike face and his hair flickered and dimmed. He looked as close to concerned for a mortal's soul as he had in several hundred, maybe even thousand years. Not since the heyday of Zeus and Olympus had he seen one like this. Maybe he couldn't quite close the curtain on the Age of Heroes yet.

Before Hades or Steve could move or speak, though, a huddled black mass emerged from the shadows. If Steve had been a man of lesser constitution, he might well have attempted to run screaming into the night. Even Hades himself looked just this side of mildly perturbed, if possible, by the new arrivals. Three women, if they could still be called such, had joined them seemingly from nowhere. Excruciatingly old, they appeared to have actually died quite some time ago, and perhaps been mummified and reanimated. Steve swallowed hard as he glimpsed their wizened faces. Only one had an eye – just one eye, where the other two had naught but empty sockets. The feeling of still being stared at from within those black holes pinned him. The second head had only one tooth, leaving none for the one-eyed one or the other. Both eyeless and toothless, the third had only a… doohickey in her skeletal old hands.

"Our dear Lord Hades," rasped the one with the tooth by way of greeting.

Hades looked as if he had swallowed a lemon but forced his face into a horrifying false grin. Steve felt the leaden weight of impending doom in a way he had never felt before, but it felt like his boots had been nailed down. The three Fates lurched and slithered closer. Their faces, highlighted by the flame of Hades's hair, looked like the haunts of childhood nightmares. For his part, the Lord of the Underworld tried his best to ignore them. Following the lead of his host, Steve did the same.

"So… like I asked," he tried again. "What did I do? Why am I… here?"

Hades rolled his eyes so hard it made his hair flare up orange.

"Okay, let's get one thing straight," he groused with his arms crossed. "It really is not that bad down here. The fire, the brimstone, the nine circles of eternal damnation – that's not my shtick."

Steve blinked, so Hades continued.

"Down here in my neighborhood, it's basically just like the world up there, just… down here – hence, the _underworld_ ," he explained, his hands now doing most of the talking. "Now, don't get me wrong, we can get pretty messed up down here – vultures, livers, rolling the rock up the hill… But that's not all there is to it. Bad reputation, got my dear brother to thank for that."

He supposed it might be because gods did not necessarily need to breathe, but Steve found himself staggered by the sheer amount of words.

"Long story short," Hades went on. "It's only bad here if you've led a bad life. If you've lived a good life – even for the most part – it's the most wonderful thing there is: paradise."

Steve let out a breath he had been unaware of holding. He took another deep one, more out of habit than necessity. What he intended to do next, he knew had a 50-50 chance of falling under "really screwing up". However, between doing something and doing nothing, he couldn't try "nothing" again. Drawing himself up to his full, not-unimpressive height, he faced the Dark Underworld's king and squared his shoulders.

"All due respect… Hades," he began, swallowing hard before addressing the God of Death by name. "I don't deserve – no… I don't want paradise. Not like this."

The raised blue eyebrow told the former pilot and spy he had better choose his next words carefully, for they could be his last.

"You see, I don't think I'm finished," he pressed on. "This war… the Great War – it won't really end all wars, will it?" And Diana… She's the best, probably the greatest warrior of all time… but she can't – no… I don't want to leave her to do it by herself."

Was that understanding in Hades's eyes?

"I guess what I'm trying to say is," Steve continued. "The world out there needs more than one hero. I'm not saying it has to be me. I don't even know if I could! But… it has to be somebody, so why not let me try?"

Before the god or the man could speak again, the huddle of the Fates sidled closer, until ignoring them became impossible. Even Hades, unshakable as he came off, seemed loath to address them. Together, the three rasped cadaverously, waiting at the god's elbow. The single eye blinked, the tooth wiggled tenuously in the pitted jaw, and the corpse-like hands extended into Hades's field of vision. What was that thing, wondered Steve. A long, thin rod attached to a clay disc dangled precariously from a fraying strand of twine.

"Hem-hem," the one with the eye cleared her throat.

Looking as if he would rather be doing anything – but _anything_ – else, Hades had no choice but to turn and face the Fates.

"Ladies," his voice dripped with oil. "Good evening… ladies."

Steve felt his skin crawl most unpleasantly.

"Good evening, Lord Hades," growled the one with the eye, each word perfectly clear despite the toothless maw. "My dear sisters and I could not help but overhear…"

The one with the tooth took over mid-sentence.

"… and we may have some information to assist his Lordship's decision," she continued, nodding blindly in the direction of the third. "Sometimes, a Thread of Life is not as cut…"

This time, the third interrupted.

"… and dried as it might seem," she finished for the three of them.

That same old hand held up the drop spindle, still barely suspended on a thread no thicker than a human hair.

"It would appear this time that our shears…" began the one with the eye, holding up a pair of wicked-looking scissor-like blades.

"… are not as sharp…" continued the second with the tooth.

The third sister held the spindle high.

"… as they have always been," concluded the one with the eye.

Hades looked round to each of the three ghoulish faces, back again, and to the loosely-dangling spindle. His gaze went from the shears to Steve's face. Steve, for his part, swallowed hard and tried valiantly not to look like his intestines felt like live, angry eels. The God of Death mulled slowly over this information. This situation had cropped up every once in a while in his vast and undying memory. Usually, they left this part to another department, but he supposed just this once… Besides, of all his nieces and nephews, he actually _liked_ Diana. Yes, he decided, as Lord of the Underworld this had to be his call. He flared his hair, the Fates shuffled back, and his cloak streamed behind him as he stepped officially forward.

"Well, it would seem the Fates are on your side tonight," he announced to Steve as if addressing a room full of people. "This isn't your stop on the River Styx – not tonight. Just tip the ferryman on the way out and I'll see you in another however long!"

Steve gulped like a fish for a moment, attempting to process the full implications of what Hades just said.

Hades smiled before continuing.

"By the way," he began. "Are you sure I can't get you something to drink?"

This guy couldn't have sounded more conniving, sneaky, and underhanded if he _tried_ , thought Steve.

"No," he replied slowly. "No… thank you."

This time, Hades grinned widely – yep, this one passed the test.

"Then you know what?" he conceded, extracting a coin from somewhere in his robes and extending it in his hand to Steve. "This one's on me, but I better not see you for another hundred years… at least!"

Steve considered the coin for a moment, studied Hades's face, and dug in his own pocket for another second.

"Can't leave town in debt," he countered, showing Hades his lucky one-pound coin. "But you have my thanks."

Hades couldn't help grinning again – yes, it would be quite a long time before he could keep this one for his collection. He'd tip his hat to this one, but he hadn't got a hat. The Fates together grinned, all but blind and mostly toothless, from god to man. They smiled back awkwardly together. Hades looked back at Steve and smiled one of those rare, real smiles.

"Make that two hundred years," he told the mortal, gesturing at the River Styx. "And make them good ones."

Steve nodded and turned in the direction the god indicated. As if on cue, the skeletal ferryman poled his boat into view. Swallowing hard once more, Steve approached the craft. He paused and nodded back to his host before embarking. The ferryman took the pound coin from Steve's outstretched hand and pocketed it. Neither being said a word. Even the River Styx remained silent, not even a splash as they pushed away. Soon, the shore of Hades's realm faded away into the black.


	2. Part 2

"All right, Sarah," the Irish accent encouraged. "You're doing just fine, lamb! Three more deep breaths and then push!"

Eighteen hours, thirty-seven minutes, and counting – she had scarce seen a babe before put up such a fight! Twice, they'd nearly lost the wee mother now, and a third turn could take them both home to Jesus. If the baby lived, he or she would be her first. While there stood the "room for one more" rule for Irish families, this might well be her only. As it stood, only the grace of God would see them both through the night with their health.

The three deep breaths came and went easily enough, and the push that followed seemed not to cost the mother so dearly. She steadied somewhat as the color returned to her freckled cheeks. Just moments ago, she had been as chalky and speckled as a fresh-laid egg! Finding the rhythm of her breath again appeared to renew her strength. According to the nurse, she had been fully dilated for hours now. For some reason, though, nothing could quite convince the little one to come out!

"That's the ticket!" urged the nurse.

A resolute breath gave the mother-to-be some fortification. In quite a final sort of way, she pushed up on her elbows and set her jaw. The old Irish strength, they all called it in maternity. As the sisters always said, the Blessed Virgin held a new mother's hands. Sometimes, as it went, she led the way to Heaven. A nearby sister who'd been hovering by the doorway quietly excused herself. With the way things looked now, this little family would be needing Father Fitzgibbons's aid before too long.

As the sister hurried away, the mother-to-be set to make a valiant, hopefully-not-final effort. Sweat dripped down her forehead from the hours of exertion, but she remained steadfast. One deep breath, two clenched hands, and she let out an almighty roar. She had no time to think, only to feel something inside of her let go. Vaguely, as if through cotton-wool, she heard the Irish nurse yell. After, she heard only her blood pumping in her ears.

It could have been minutes later, or it could have been hours. Sarah felt, however vaguely, something nudging her shoulder. The rush of blood continued in her ears, drowning out coherent thought. Instinctively, though, she attempted to shift in the direction of the touch. Next moment, a clear and unmistakable sound pierced through the fog in her head.

"Oh my…" she sighed as someone helped her sit up.

The Irish nurse held something so tiny, swaddled in white hospital blankets.

"Congratulations, Sarah," the accent reassured her. "By the grace of God, you've had a boy – a beautiful little boy!"

As the nurse placed the tiny bundle in the new mother's arms, the little one let out a scream to rattle the windowpanes!

"We-ell, will you listen to that?" the voice of Father Fitzgibbons broke in over the wails. "He'll be a fine tenor with lungs like that."

Sarah shifted automatically, trying to cover herself more appropriately with her hospital gown.

"Oh, don't you worry about him, little mother," the nurse encouraged. "We only got the Father as a caution. You two fought a hard fight there. For a moment it looked… like we might need him."

Before Sarah could formulate a response, the little red face screwed up again and howled like a Sunday cantor. Father Fitzgibbons had been around for enough of these that he excused himself before the nurse could hurry him out. The old Irish nurse knew that tune and refrain well. She helped Sarah adjust again so that the baby could have his first breakfast. Mother and child settled back into the pillows and blankets quietly.

"It did look for a while like we might lose you both," the old nurse told her gently. "But, Lord help us, we're fighters, our people…"

Sarah nodded, holding her son at a better angle.

"He'll be needing a good strong name in honor of a fight like that" the nurse continued. "Have you and your husband chosen one?"

The new mother nodded again as her little one finished up with his first meal. By instinct, she lifted him up on her shoulder and rubbed his tiny back. Almost without looking, the nurse reached for a towel and tucked it in where it would be needed. "Gas!" Father Fitzgibbons always said. Sure enough, the first burp came and both women smiled – one more thing they could be sure worked properly!

"So?" she, the nurse, urged. "What'll it be? A family name?"

Sarah smiled with tired eyes as she cradled her now-sleeping baby.

"Steven," she half-whispered before continuing, "Steven Grant."

The nurse reached for the baby. Her other nurses were ready to remove all the linens and help the mother clean up. Sarah clutched him close at first, reluctant to let go at all, but she trusted the old Irishwoman. He fussed quietly in the strange arms. Gas again, thought the nurse. As the other nurses swarmed her bed, Sarah kept a hawk's eye on her baby. Of course, the old nurse had held hundreds, if not thousands of new babies. He'd hardly be safer anywhere else. Soon enough, they had her clean enough to return her son to her arms.

"Welcome to the world," whispered the nurse as she carefully helped mother and baby get situated once more, "Steven Grant Rogers."

The old Irish nurse could see a lifetime of good for this boy, but alas… she couldn't see him becoming a priest!


End file.
